


Steady

by pettifogger



Category: Triple Frontier (2019)
Genre: Begging, Comfort Sex, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Praise Kink, Service Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-24 11:06:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30071295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pettifogger/pseuds/pettifogger
Summary: “Frankie, baby,” you gasp. Your hands are still on his face, cupping his cheeks and rubbing your thumbs on the bare patches of his beard on either side of his jaw. “Are you sure?”God, he loves you. That’s his first thought. Always checking in on him, but not condescending; always asking if he’s okay without making it seem like you think something’s wrong with him. Yes, he’s sure. Yes, he needs this. Yes, he needs to make sure you feel as safe and secure as you make him feel, and yes, he needs to know you’re okay. After that dream, being as close to you as possible is exactly what he needs.or: Frankie tries to push you away after Colombia. It’s a good thing you’re too stubborn to let him go, because you’re right there when he needs you most.
Relationships: Francisco "Catfish" Morales/Original Female Character(s), Francisco "Catfish" Morales/Reader, Francisco "Catfish" Morales/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 38





	Steady

Frankie has nightmares.

Not often, not anymore. He’s gotten a lot better over the past few months, but it’s not perfect, and you both know that won’t change. The nightmares come and go, and you’ve learned to sleep lighter so you’ll wake up when they return. 

It’s dark in your bedroom when you blink awake tonight. You were in the middle of some kind of odd, blurry dream—you have no memory of what, now that you’re awake—when the sound of harsh breathing broke through the walls of your dream and into reality. You rub your eyes and push yourself off the mattress, squinting in the dark to find Frankie.

He’s not in your arms and you’re not in his, which is unusual. If you’re in each other’s vicinity you’re touching each other, and, if you’re in bed together, you’re usually wrapped around each other in a way that other people would find stifling. Waking up without him there feels odd. As you pat your hands in the divot in the mattress where he belongs, your eyes slowly adjust to the darkness. The outline of Frankie becomes clear at the foot of your bed, his shoulders rounded and head down.

“Frankie?”

He turns and the low blue light from the window illuminates his profile. He doesn’t say anything but you can hear him try to settle his breathing back to a normal pattern, like he’s trying to hide this episode from you. You crawl to the edge of the bed and sit down behind him. Your chin comes to a rest on his shoulder.

“Hey.” You press a gentle kiss to his bare shoulder. He’s radiating heat, even though he’s only wearing his briefs. His skin feels slightly damp to the touch.

“Needed air,” he rasps. You can feel the rhythm of his breath, the rise and fall of his shoulders as he inhales and exhales. 

“Okay,” you murmur. You want to wrap your arms around him; he’s told you that your presence calms him, but sometimes he needs space. Who knows if tonight is one of those nights?

He turns back to face the window and you bring one hand up to smooth down his arm. 

“Can I touch you?” 

You hear him swallow roughly, watch him nod. That’s progress. When he first came home, he tried to hide this from you. He would disappear from your bed in the middle of the night and you’d find him asleep in the cabin of his truck the next morning. He’d leave work on time but not come home until after dinner went cold and he would barely say a word when he returned. He would still crawl into bed with you, seeking your warmth and your arms wrapped around him as he tried to sleep, but he didn’t talk much. And he kept disappearing on you.

You wrap your arms around him, slowly, your hands coming to rest on his soft belly. You press your nose into the crook of his neck and breathe slowly, just like he’s learned to do when he starts to panic. With you pressed against him and your soothing presence filling the room, he relaxes into you. He’s heavy in your arms but you keep him up, his back pressed to your chest. 

He doesn’t say anything and neither do you. Reaching up, you brush your fingers through his hair. He finally let it grow out—at your _repeated_ requests—and even in the darkness of your bedroom you can make out the curls on his brow and the nape of his neck. His breath is warm against your hand as he exhales through his nose. 

The truth is, it took him months to tell you what happened in Colombia. You weren’t sure what he did down there and you didn’t understand why he came back so shaken. You stayed by his side, of course, but you wondered and worried for _months._ When he finally told you what happened on the mission—sitting beside you on the couch, dead-eyed, voice flat as he recalled it—only then did you realize that the disappearing act hadn’t been caused by trouble between the two of you. 

He wasn’t trying to get away from you. Mistakenly, he thought he was protecting you. He was trying to keep this hidden. He was trying to pretend he was the same man he was before you left, trying to keep you away from his messes and his trauma. He would have nightmares and disappear from your bed to sleep in his truck so you wouldn’t have to hear him cry. And the nights he came home late were after hours of driving around backroads, listening to music and trying to block out the memories that wouldn’t leave him alone. 

Letting you see him like this was a gradual process. As many times as you told him that you’re with him through everything— _everything, you hear me?_ is your constant refrain—he kept trying to give you a way out. As if he were damaged goods now. As if you wouldn’t want him anymore.

With your arms around his chest and your face buried in the curls at the nape of his neck, you’ve never wanted him more. The more he leans into you, the more you love him. He thought opening up to you and letting you see the raw edges would push you away, but you’re stubborn as hell and you love this man with every part of you. You know you can’t put him back together, not the way he was before, but you love him just like this. It’s a different kind of love, but it’s just as strong. Stronger, even. 

You want to tell him that, but now isn’t the time. Now is the time to sit in silence and wait for him to tell you what he needs. 

Minutes pass just like this, with Frankie’s weight leaning back on you, the dim light from outside lighting your bedroom in a dark blue haze, the two of you breathing together. 

After a long silence, you nudge him with your chin. “Do you want to talk about it?” Your hand finds his upper arm, rubbing it just like he does to you when you’re stressed. “Or do you want to try and go back to sleep?” 

Frankie turns, then, and you finally see his whole face. It’s hard to see in the dark but all your favorite parts are visible: his pretty eyes, hawkish nose, pouty lower lip, patchy beard. The streetlights outside the window reflect in his eyes and you think they look a little red, but you’re not sure.

“I...” his voice is rough and low. “...I think I wanna talk about it.” 

“Okay.” 

Another breakthrough. Honestly, you don’t know how to have this conversation, no matter how many times you’ve looked up ways to help him or texted his friends to see what they think. But if he wants to talk, you’ll be here to listen.

For a big man, he’s surprisingly easy to move. You pull him back up the bed to where he belongs: in your arms. He lays down between your legs and rests his head on your chest, listening to your heartbeat, steadying himself by touching you. 

“Was it a nightmare?” His hair is soft as you card your fingers through it.

“Yeah.” He nods and his beard tickles your bare tummy where your shirt has ridden up. “Still having those,” he grumbles. 

“Less often, but yeah,” you murmur, hands still busy in his hair. “What—do you wanna tell me what it was about?”

He grunts. “It wasn’t…it’s hard to explain. It doesn’t make sense, it’s not like I’m reliving—not like I’m reliving anything,” he explains, struggling for each word like they’re pieces to a puzzle. “It’s—it’s the way it _felt_. Guilt, fear, all that shit.”

You nod. Your hands creep down to his shoulders, rubbing the places where you feel knots.

“Tonight, I...” Frankie’s voice breaks and you look down at him, brows knit together in concern. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he says, “not—not specifically, at least. But it was about you.” 

_You?_ That’s a new one. You assumed his dreams were about Tom or about the people he killed. That’s what keeps him up at night; that’s what he talks about in his sleep when he’s having nightmares. But ones about _you_ —that’s different.

“I dreamed I lost you.” 

“Oh, _Frankie_.” You can’t help it; you pull him closer, curling into him so you can cradle his head in your arms. The idea that _you_ are the cause of some of the pain in his life—God, it wrenches like a knife to the gut. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know,” he rasps. “I know. I just—sometimes I can’t help it, I…” He trails off and looks to the side. 

“You don’t have to explain.” You tilt his chin up to look at you. “Not if you don’t want to. But I need you to understand that I am _not leaving_. You hear me? I am _not leaving you_. You’re stuck with me, Francisco Morales.” 

A weak smile crosses his face. He’s always liked it when you say his name like that, and he’s always liked it when you show that you’re made of steel. You’re pretty and soft and sweet, but you’re unshakeable, too. You’re exactly what he needs, in the before and the after.

You fluff his curls with your hands and he gives you a look of feigned irritation. 

“Do you want to go back to bed?” 

“Uh, no,” he says, as if that just occurred to him. “Actually, I’d really like to kiss you right now.” 

You smile. He’s lucky that line always works. 

♥

“Actually, I’d really like to kiss you right now.” 

Maybe that’s a weird thing to say after waking up in a cold sweat, but the only thought on Frankie’s mind right now is you. His nightmare had been strange and vague and awful and it had ended with you dead and your blood on his hands as he tried to save you. The details are fuzzy, but the feeling of losing you is sharp as a knife. But you’re here, warm and alive, your heartbeat clear and strong in your chest, and he wants you more than he’s ever wanted anything. 

You pull him up eagerly, your soft hands on either side of his face as you bring him in for a kiss. He surges up to level himself with you, holding himself up with his hands firmly planted into the mattress, and kisses you like he hasn’t seen you in years. 

You’re the first to moan. It’s a quiet, pretty sound, barely above a gasp as he nips at your lower lip. Your mouth falls open and he slants his lips to deepen the kiss, sucking down the hungry sounds you make for him. 

“Oh, _Frankie_ ,” you gasp again. Your hands are still on his face, cupping his cheeks and rubbing your thumbs on the bare patches of his beard on either side of his jaw. “Are you sure?”

_God_ , he loves you. That’s his first thought. Always checking in on him, but not condescending; always asking if he’s okay without making it seem like you think something’s wrong with him. Yes, he’s sure. Yes, he needs this. Yes, he needs to make sure you feel as safe and secure as you make him feel, and yes, he needs to know you’re okay. After that dream, being as close to you as possible is _exactly_ what he needs. 

That’s not what he says. That’s too many words for him to manage right now. What he says is _yes_ , voice all low and rumbly, and then ducks down to kiss you breathless all over again. 

He hears his therapist in his head, reminding him that he might be using sex to avoid processing his emotions, but he tells her, as politely as possible, to fuck off. That’s not what that is. This is—this is _healing_ , letting you in and letting you love him, all the messy parts and sharp edges on view. This won’t fix what’s fucked up in his head, but it _will_ help fix the wedge he tried to drive between you. 

Frankie ducks his head to leave a line of kisses down your jaw and your neck to your collarbones. Your hands are still in his hair, pulling gently, tangling his curls into a mess that will stick up everywhere tomorrow morning. He nips at your skin, leaving marks and soothing over them with his tongue. When he lowers himself down the bed to kiss the space between your breasts you moan aloud, the breathy sound filling the nighttime silence of the bedroom.

“Frankie, please,” you beg. “Please, baby, I need you inside me.”

He feels himself get harder at your words, the way you ask for filthy things in such a sweet voice. But he’s not ready for that, not yet. Right now he needs to love you, worship you, _serve_ you—he needs to make you come while he watches, just so he knows he’s good for something. All the awful things he’s done in his life, all the blood on his hands and guilt in his conscience—it makes him feel sick and worthless. But if he can be good for you, maybe he’s worth something after all. 

Being good for you is the only thing on his mind as he moves down the bed, making space between your legs for his broad shoulders. Your thighs are so soft and so strong as he pushes them apart. You’re bare under your sleep shirt and he’s grateful for it, his nerves already frayed and his patience out the window. Bunching your shirt in his hands, he pushes it up over your hips and leaves soft kisses on your stomach and the curve of your inner thighs. 

He can tell you’re ready for him; he can smell your arousal and he wants to taste it on his tongue. Your hands return to his hair as he ducks his head and licks a firm line up the length of your core. Your hips jerk against his face and he rolls with it, letting you take the lead as you moan and whine under the attention he gives you.

“Yes,” you gasp. “Yeah, baby, just like that. Oh, fuck, you’re so good at this.” 

Your praise makes him glow with pride. He loves this; it might very well be the only thing he knows he’s good at. He loves the way you taste, musky and familiar, and he loves the way he can hear you even with your thighs around his face. When he presses a finger inside you, he remembers all over again that you feel like heaven: soft and warm and wet, more welcoming than any home he’s ever had. 

The sound of your quiet moans fills the room as he fucks you slowly with two fingers and uses his lips and tongue on your clit to bring you to the edge. Every noise he draws from you is a reward; it’s a reminder that he’s good at this, loving you, making you feel good. 

“Oh, god. Oh my god, Frankie,” you gasp, and he groans into you in response. Your hands tighten in his hair and he feels your slick soak your face. It’s a telltale sign that you’re close, and he just focuses harder on making you come. 

“So good, baby. Oh, _fuck_ , just like that. You feel so good, I can’t—I— _oh my god,”_ you gasp, and the firm press of Frankie’s hot mouth right where you need it pushes you over. 

Frankie’s name spills from your lips like a prayer. Your thighs tense around his head and he thinks, blearily, that he would be happy to die here. The room smells like sex and sounds like your breathy moans as he fucks you through it. When you finally relax under him, he presses a soft kiss to your lower belly and pushes himself up to join you at the head of the bed.

You’re always affectionate after you come and tonight is no exception. Your arms wind around his neck and you’re murmuring his name as you kiss him deep and slow. Ravenous, you just want more of him; even though you’re still coming down from your high, you hook one of your legs around his thigh and drag his body down to lay flush against yours. He grinds against you unconsciously, his length trapped between his stomach and yours, and finds himself needing you more than ever.

“Need to be inside you,” he murmurs in the space between you, all thoughts above base instinct shot to hell. “Please, _querida_.”

♥

“Please, _querida_.”

He begs with such an earnest look on his face, his deep brown eyes bright with desire and his cheeks flushed. You don’t miss the way his face glistens with your own wetness and you feel yourself throb at the sight. 

You can barely muster a response, needy and incoherent as you are. “ _Please_ ,” you whisper back. 

Frankie rolls off you and scrambles to rid himself of his underwear. You’re captivated by watching him—the way he lifts his hips, the flex of his arms as he pulls his briefs down his legs, _oh_ , and his _legs_ —and when he turns to face you again, he smiles.

“Forgetting something?” His gaze falls down to your body, still covered in your sleep shirt, and your face heats as you yank it off and throw it on the floor. 

“Perfect,” he murmurs as he takes his place between your legs. His gaze is hot as fire as he looks you up and down. “Fuck, sweetheart, you’re so fuckin’ _perfect_.” 

You preen under his praise. He’s like this all the time—full of endless compliments for you, always giving you a puppy-dog look like you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen—and you’ll never get used to it. He looks at you with something close to awe as he hitches your thigh up around his hip and pushes inside. 

He goes slowly, and when he’s fully sheathed inside you Frankie sighs like he’s been waiting for this. Like he’s been holding his breath since the last time. Like he’s coming home. He does that every time and you love it; you love the way he never stops wanting you and the way he feels safest in your arms. When he’s inside you he relaxes, letting the weight of the world fall off his shoulders as he dedicates all of his focus to you. He looks younger, too, when his face is slack with pleasure and his eyes get glassy as he starts to lose himself in you.

You drag him down for a kiss and end up moaning into his mouth when he starts to give you slow, deep strokes. It’s an easy glide, thanks to Frankie’s mouth and your first orgasm, but he’s still babbling about how tight and perfect you are. That’s another thing you like about sex with Frankie—he might be terse in daily life, but in bed? He won’t shut up.

“Oh, f-fuck, baby. You feel so good, how do you feel so fucking _good?”_ He rambles, his voice husky and low. “So fucking tight and so fucking _wet_. God— _God_ , _yes_.” 

You rock your hips up to meet his strokes, seeking more of him. He grabs your thigh with one big hand and presses it down towards the mattress, opening you up to take him deeper. Your hands fly to his back, one hand curled around the nape of his neck and the other wrapped around his lower back. With your grip pulling him down to you, he lowers himself onto his forearms and starts a slow grind that drives you _wild_. 

You’re far past words, but Frankie isn’t. He looks at your face—eyes bright with desire, mouth open, hair wild—and something melts in his chest. He rests his forehead on your shoulder and starts murmuring something against your skin like a litany as his rhythm gets rougher.

“I love you,” you hear him say, and you tilt your head to listen closer. “I love you,” he tells you, repeating it with every stroke. “ _I love you, I love you, I love you_.” 

There are too many emotions inside you right now. The ache between your hips burns like fire and you’re about to come again but hearing Frankie whisper _I love you_ in that broken voice, over and over, makes affection rise up in your chest and threaten to choke you. Your fingers dig into his skin and your face is buried in his neck. His smell and his voice and his body surround you and fill you so full it feels like your heart might burst. 

“Can you come for me, baby?” His voice is rough against your ear. “I wanna feel you come again. Wanna watch you, you’re so fuckin’ pretty when you come. Please, sweetheart, please.” 

You can never resist Frankie when he begs. He drops his hand down between your bodies to circle your clit, and just the briefest touch of his fingers on you pushes you over. You hear yourself sob as you come, holding him tight with your arms around his chest and your legs around his. The tension snaps and bliss washes over you, feeling nothing but safe and comfortable and so fucking _good_ in his arms. 

Normally Frankie tries to fuck you through it to draw it out, but you’re holding him so tight he can’t move. He just stays right where he is and watches you come and cries out when he feels you tighten around him like a vice. 

“You can let go,” you manage, your own voice ragged and raw now. “Please, Frankie. Wanna—wanna feel you come, want you to fill me up.” You gasp as he starts to move again, his thrusts rough and wild. One of your hands comes off his back and finds his; he presses your intertwined hands down onto the bed and holds tight. 

“Love you so much.” His voice cracks as he says it, choking out a moan when you tighten around him again. “Oh, fuck, sweetheart. I’m— _fuck_ —gonna come—”

“Do it,” you tell him, whispered right next to his ear. “I’ve got you. Let go, baby.”

Frankie comes like he always does: loud, breath harsh and ragged, buried as deep inside you as he can be. His entire body tenses over you, his hand holding yours so tight his knuckles turn white. As odd as it sounds, you like listening to Frankie when he comes. He’s so wild, so out of control. He’s a quiet man who’s spent so long trying to hide parts of himself from you; seeing him like this is a privilege. You revel in the feeling of him losing control and listen to every harsh breath and whimper he gives you. As he comes down, you trace your free hand down his side and feel his muscles jump. 

“I love you,” he slurs. 

You laugh as he pushes himself off you just a bit. His hair sticks up in all directions and he looks a little dazed. 

“I love you, too,” you murmur, reaching up to try and tame his flyaway curls. 

“No,” he insists, fuck-drunk and stubborn. “Listen. _I love you_. And…” He gives up on trying to hold himself up and collapses on you again. “...and thank you.”

With your arms around him and his face buried in the crook of your neck, it’s hard for you to hear him. Regardless, you find yourself asking, “For what?”

His voice is so soft when he responds. “For not leaving.” 

Those three words break your heart. It shatters into tiny pieces like glass on a stone counter, like a chandelier crashing down on the floor. “Frankie…”

“I know,” he grumbles, still muffled by his complete lack of desire to move off you. “You won’t. But thank you—for all of it.”

You card your hands through his hair and listen as his breathing slows to a steady rhythm. “I love you, too,” you whisper, but you’re pretty sure he’s already asleep. 

♥

The next morning, Frankie wakes up to sunlight sneaking through the blinds and you in his arms. He was dead asleep all night after fucking you—blissfully peaceful sleep, no nightmares at all—and you apparently nestled yourself into him with your back to his chest before you fell asleep. You have one of his hands held in both of yours and he’s pretty sure you’re drooling on your pillow. Between that and your messy hair, which is currently tickling his nose, you’re just about the cutest thing he’s ever seen.

With the warm weight of you in his arms, Frankie feels a kind of peace that he forgot existed. A puff of air from your nose makes your hair fall in your face, and he brushes it behind your ear just gentle enough to keep from waking you. Sleepily, you grab for his hand again. You restore it to its place between your hands and curl around it, tucking his knuckles under your chin. He resigns himself to getting drool on his hand and pulls you closer, burying his face in your hair and drifting back to sleep. 

It’s been months since Frankie has felt like this. No urgency, no guilt, no fear—just safety and love, filling the room like the sunrise outside the window. 

**Author's Note:**

> a _Triple Frontier_ break in your regularly scheduled Mando programming! or: I needed a brain break between Bound/Release and starting part 6 of Cover Me 😈
> 
> find me on [tumblr](https://letterfromvienna.tumblr.com/) xoxo


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